


Two Shall Be One Flesh

by Lise



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, It's not as dark as it sounds really, Mild Gore, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, Sharing a Body, Stabbing, Whump, based on a casual one off line in the tv show, light on the comfort, me belly flopping into this fandom, not a terribly happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: Aziraphale takes a brief detour from Constantinople in the 13th century to check in on his eternal adversary. Accidents happen. Mistakes are made.They learn a thing or two about the dangers of attempting to cohabitate in a single corporation.





	Two Shall Be One Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I titled this fic after the Biblical verse about people getting married because I think I'm hilarious. Based off a prompt from [Lena](http://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com), as usual, because she is a professional at taking small details from canon and going "so you know how you could use this to make your faves suffer, Lise?" and, well, who am I to say no to something like that?
> 
> Nebulously wiggly-hand-gesture on the whole TV verse/book verse question. 
> 
> With eternal thanks to [Amelia](http://ameliarating.tumblr.com) for her tireless editing work. 
> 
> aka, you know that bit where Aziraphale says something about how it's too bad that he can't just possess Crowley because he'd explode? About that.

Around the mid-thirteenth century, it occured to Aziraphale that it had been quite a while since he’d last seen the demon Crowley.

That was how Aziraphale thought of him, very deliberately: _the demon Crowley._ It was rather too easy to just go directly to _Crowley,_ which seemed altogether too friendly and familiar. He’d tried _the demon Adversary Crowley_ for a little while, but it just felt like too much.

At any rate - it had been a good couple decades since they’d last crossed paths (in Venice), and while that wasn’t so long in the scheme of things, Aziraphale still found himself wondering what his demonic counterpart was up to.

No good, of course, but more _specifically._

Of course, once he started wondering, he couldn’t leave it alone. It nagged at him, the question of Where Crowley Was and What He Was Doing, and what sort of No Good he might be up to, and really, Aziraphale told himself, it was only _reasonable_ to keep track of one’s eternal enemy.

Which was the explanation he was going to give to his superiors, if they ever asked why he’d abandoned his post in Constantinople and headed for Al-Andalus, where he could very dimly sense the aura of his infernal adversary.

He’d just pop in for a bit. Say hello. Do a bit of wile thwarting.

The word _fraternization_ drifted across Aziraphale’s mind, but he determinedly dismissed it. The demon Crowley was, after all, a demon, and angels did not fraternize with demons. He would know if he was doing it. Presumably his very nature would rebel. Fraternizing! Goodness. What an accusation.

Lying was very unangelic, but a bit of intentional obliviousness was perfectly permissible, and Aziraphale was very good at it.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t been in Iberia since the 8th century or so. It seemed to still be doing fairly well for itself, though. The Moors were doing very interesting things with spices that, in Aziraphale’s opinion, greatly improved the local cuisine.

The demon Crowley had planted himself in Ishbiliya, where Aziraphale found him selling fabricated relics.

“Oh, this?” he was saying as Aziraphale edged toward his table. “This is a fragment of the thighbone of our blessed Saint James - would I lie to you? Guaranteed to - oh, bugger.” As usual, he was wearing a set of dark glasses, but Aziraphale was quite certain his eyes had gone wide behind them. Aziraphale gave a little wave.

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint,” Aziraphale said mildly, with just a touch of Persuasive Conviction, “but this man is lying to all of you. There is not a single genuine relic on that table. Not even a spark of the divine touch. Now, if you’d all move along...”

Obediently, the crowd dispersed, leaving the two of them looking at each other. The demon Crowley’s expression was decidedly disgruntled.

“Interfering busybody,” he said.

“I can’t just see demonic activity and _ignore_ it,” Aziraphale said.

“This isn’t _demonic activity,_ ” the demon Crowley protested. “It’s...a side hustle.”

“A side hustle,” Aziraphale said skeptically. “What in heaven does that mean?”

“Eh, not important. You’ve spoiled it now.” The demon Crowley scowled at him, though not for long. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Thought you were in Constantinople.”

Aziraphale blinked at him twice. “How did you know I was in Constantinople?”

“Oh, well,” the demon Crowley said, suddenly evasive. “Got to keep track of the competition, don’t I?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Naturally.” He found that he was warmed, in some peculiar way, by the idea that Crowley might have bothered to notice where he was.

_The_ _demon_ Crowley. That was a bit unwieldy to think every time, and Aziraphale thought that perhaps it might be fine for him to leave it off. Now that he was here, it seemed a bit rude, really, even if he wasn’t actually _saying_ it.

“Well?” Crowley prompted. “Have you been transferred?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Not exactly.” Eyebrows went up, and Aziraphale said, “I hadn’t seen you in a while and I was wondering what you were up to. What sort of - nefarious activities, that is. Evil doings. That sort of thing.” He didn’t _mean_ to sound defensive, but he supposed he might have, a bit. Still, there was no call for Crowley to hoot like that.

“Disobeying orders to look in on me? How _rebellious_ of you,” he said, with relish, and Aziraphale scowled at him.

“Hush,” he said, though he could feel himself flushing. “It isn’t like that, and I’ll thank you not to insinuate otherwise.”

“That’s what I do,” Crowley said. “Insinuate. Constantly insinuating. Goes with the wiles.” Aziraphale gave him a sharp, suspicious look, suspecting that he was being mocked, but with the dark glasses it was difficult to say for certain.

“Don’t people ever ask you why you wear those all the time?”

“Never,” Crowley said. “Couple people’ve thought about it. Decided not to.” He flashed a grin at Aziraphale that was a bit snake-ish, which was troubling in that snakes could not, generally, grin. Aziraphale frowned at him, though it was not as though he could pretend he hadn’t used his own celestial gifts to steer people away from inconvenient truths.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, having more or less exhausted his conversational gambits. He supposed he could ask point-blank what sort of nefarious demonic activities Crowley had been performing, but that seemed a question unlikely to get much of an answer. Isbiliya did not appear to be a den of particular iniquity, and it had not burned to the ground, and as such Aziraphale did not have a very good excuse to linger in dereliction of his actual duty.

And yet he hadn’t left.

Crowley was watching him closely, and with what felt like unnerving intensity, eyebrows a little raised. “I’m sure you’ve got some important business to get back to in Constantinople,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Absolutely.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said. And did not move.

“That way,” Crowley said after another few moments of silence, “I can get right back to my infernal dealings, with no one around to interfere. I’ve got a quota, you know.”

Aziraphale straightened. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, no. I can’t allow that. If I walked away knowing that you might be - be _up to something,_ that would be a black mark on my record for sure.”

“Can’t have that,” Crowley said.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said, relieved.

“Happens that I’m a bit peckish,” Crowley said. “Might get something to eat. There’s a great place near here I’ve been a couple times.” He paused. “I think I’ll head over that way.”

“Will you, now,” Aziraphale said. He paused, and then said firmly, “I think I must come along, to keep an eye on you.”

“Definitely,” Crowley said. “Who knows what I could get up to otherwise.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said. “After you, then.”

* * *

The inn Crowley led him to could be charitably called ‘not particularly nice,’ if one squinted and didn’t look too closely in the corners. Aziraphale did look at them, and recoiled both spiritually and physically.

“Where have you taken me?” he asked.

“Appearances, deceiving, beauty in the eye of the beholder, etcetera,” Crowley said. “The food’s better than the decor.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, “because the decor is telling me that this is a place good people go to get stabbed.”

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley said with a grin that was not very reassuring. “I won’t let you get stabbed.”

The previous occupants of the best table in the house suddenly found themselves moved to a dark corner, their former location occupied by a strange pair who somehow seemed to have been sitting there for quite a while. Crowley stretched out his legs well past the space they ought to occupy, and Aziraphale gave them a brief disapproving look before settling himself into his seat.

“So what’s good here?” he asked.

“I recommend the paella,” Crowley said. “You’d probably like the custard and caramel, too. And the benefit of _this_ place is that it actually serves wine.”

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I can forgive the rather lacking ambience if the food is good.”

Crowley, he thought, seemed pleased.

The food _was_ good. Aziraphale ate almost to bursting. He did like the custard and caramel, very much, and took some nibbles of the pine nut-almond-honey cake Crowley ordered as well. They went through three bottles of wine.

“My de- demon,” Aziraphale said, a bit tipsy. “Are you _trying_ to get me drunk?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “Not really. Maybe? How’re things in Constantinople, anyway?”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, and then adjusted, “boring. I’d much - much rather be here.”

Crowley’s expression did something strange. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said, and then caught himself. “The, ah, architecture. All these lovely mosques. And they do seem to know what to do with desserts.”

Crowley sat back, somehow slouching further into his chair. The proprietor, who had begun to eye these men who had been taking up a table for the past four hours with growing hostility, abruptly realized that three bottles of olive oil had started leaking at once. “Oh, sure,” he said. “Can’t you ask, then? ‘Oy, Your Holiness Gabriel, this is Principality Aziraphale requesting reassignment, please and thank you.’”

“It isn’t quite that easy,” Aziraphale said, though it probably would be. All he would likely have to say would be _I’ve learned that the demon Crowley is wiling unthwarted_ and likely he would dispatched posthaste. For some reason he felt a bit odd about actually doing it, though. It was a bit of a guilty, furtive sort of feeling. Not pleasant at all.

“S’pose that’s bureaucracy for you,” Crowley said. “Below doesn’t have the monopoly on that, hm?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and pushed his plate away. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “Though I’m sure ours is more organized.”

“Organized just means more paperwork,” Crowley said. He stood up and stretched, body drawing out like it was trying to turn back into a snake. “Right, angel. Shall we?”

“We haven’t paid,” Aziraphale said, staying where he was. Crowley lowered his sunglasses a fraction and gave him a _look._

“Nope,” he said, and then replaced the sunglasses and sauntered back out to the street. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, scowling after him, then miracled up some money and followed him out.

“ _Really,_ ” he huffed.

“What,” Crowley said with perfect innocence.

“I would be perfectly within my rights to smite you,” Aziraphale said, not meaning it. Crowley stiffened, though, and half-turned toward him, then stopped and grinned a little too widely.

“You’d miss me.”

“I would _not._ ”

“Mm,” Crowley said. “Want to come see where I’m staying? Nice place, next to the Guadalquivir-”

“I really should be getting on,” Aziraphale said.

“That so?” Crowley said. He started meandering down the street, and for no particular reason Aziraphale followed him. “Night’s still young.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said.

“Perfect time for occult activities,” Crowley said significantly. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him.

“Are you trying to _manipulate_ me into staying?”

“Well,” Crowley said, wiggling his head from side to side in a sort of ‘maybe, yes’ gesture. Aziraphale straightened up, offended.

“I am not some - some lowly _guardian angel_ to be gulled by a, a, an iniquitous serpent!”

Did he imagine it, or did Crowley seem hurt? “Course not,” he said, suddenly much cooler. “My mistake.” He turned sharply on his heel.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said abruptly, and then cut off. Crowley stopped, though, his head turning a little to the side like he was listening. Aziraphale had the oddest sense that he should apologize, but - to a _demon?_ He _couldn’t._

Wrestling with the conundrum of the fact that he didn’t particularly _want_ to go, and yet was certain he really should and did not want to appear wishy-washy by changing his stance, Aziraphale said nothing. Crowley’s shoulders twitched.

“Nice flight back, then,” he said, and walked off into the dark. In his black clothing (always shades of black), he vanished quickly.

Aziraphale sighed, unaccountably disappointed. It wasn’t as though he could let himself be tempted by a demon, he reminded himself firmly. That way lay ruin. And really, he was already far beyond the bounds of propriety, strictly speaking. He shouldn’t have gone to dinner at all. It was - _Crowley,_ Serpent of Eden, his Adversary of Millennia.

The paella had been delicious.

The thing about Aziraphale, generally speaking, was that while he had been created as a warrior of God he tended to give the impression, regardless of the actual appearance of his corporation at the time, of a comfortable sofa. This, along with the fact that he appreciated well made clothes as much as well made food, did not make it a good idea to stand in a dark city street staring longingly after a departing demon. Anything could happen.

Someone might, for instance, stick a knife in one’s kidney. And then the other one, just for good measure.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, quite startled. “What did you do _that_ for?”

The difference between Aziraphale and a comfortable sofa, among other things, was that a comfortable sofa could not obliterate you from existence. Or, because he was distracted by the knife currently stuck in his corporation, send you roughly 8000 kilometers southwest to land in a tree full of very surprised howler monkeys.

Normally, this would all be no more than an inconvenience, if a rather painful and embarrassing one. As Aziraphale discovered when he attempted to miracle himself back into one piece, though, it was not his lucky day.

Angelic swords had come first, naturally. But when it came to the Eternal Struggle Between Good and Evil, no arms race stayed one-sided for long, and Hell had really taken to the whole idea. And the trouble with demonic blades was that celestial miracles did not work properly on the resulting wounds.

Which meant that, for Aziraphale, ‘inconvenient’ had quickly become ‘extremely unfortunate.’

He managed, at least, to do his collapsing off the middle of the street, tensing when he heard quick footsteps approaching. “Stay back!” he said loudly. “I’m warning you!”

The footsteps stopped. “Angel? I thought I heard-”

“You,” Aziraphale said, from where he was now sitting and trying very hard to stop his body from leaking.

“Yeah, me,” the demon Crowley said, closing the rest of the distance and crouching down in front of him. “What happened to you, you’re - bleeding?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Aziraphale accused. “You, you fail to tempt me and _moments_ later some ruffian stabs me in the back with a demonic blade?”

The demon Crowley held very still for a moment, and then hissed. “Bless it,” he said. “A demonic - are you sure?”

“Am I _sure?_ ” Aziraphale’s voice rose sharply. “Of course I’m sure! Do you think I wouldn’t _know? Ow._ ”

Shouting, it turned out, was painful. So was breathing, and sitting still, but one of those three things was optional.

“Keep it _down,_ ” the demon Crowley said. “Come on, let me see where-”

“Get away from me, foul fiend,” Aziraphale said, as vehemently as he could while not shouting. “Can you deny that this is your doing?” The miserable thing of it was that he felt horribly _betrayed,_ though of course betrayal was sort of part of what demons _did._ Only - only they’d been having such a nice time.

Oh, dear. That was not a safe thought.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I can, actually, because it _wasn’t._ ”

“So, what, the appearance of a demonic weapon and an attack on me in the city you are corrupting is a _coincidence,_ is that it?”

“Yes! Do you think I keep track of every demonic weapon?” the demon Crowley snapped, ripping off his sunglasses and dropping them to the side. His snake’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “There are a lot of them. Below loves their swords, and knives, and - that sort of thing. Someone might’ve dropped this one a century ago. _This wasn’t me._ ”

Oddly enough, Aziraphale discovered that he believed him. That didn’t make him feel better about the fact that he had been stabbed by a demonic sword and was bleeding, and not healing, and in rather a lot of pain.

“Oh dear,” he said faintly. “This is...not good.”

“You don’t _say,_ ” Crowley said, rather more viciously than Aziraphale felt was warranted. “Bleeding is usually bad.”

“You don’t need to be patronizing about it,” Aziraphale complained. He was hurting rather a lot, and his fingers and toes were starting to feel funny. He tried to heal himself, but it just wouldn’t _stick_ , sliding off the wound like - like something sliding off something else.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and he sounded honestly upset, “you’re discorporating.”

“It seems I am,” Aziraphale said unhappily. It’d been a while. He’d gotten rather fond of this body. And Sandalphon was going to be insufferable.

Crowley hissed like the snake he’d once been, and still was, sort of. “All right,” he said under his breath. “All right, bless it - come on, angel.” He held out a hand. “Hop on.”

Aziraphale blinked dazedly at him. “Beg pardon?”

Crowley didn’t look happy, but he did look determined. “You’re about to discorporate, and you said it yourself. Upstairs isn’t going to be happy about you abandoning your post. It’ll be _ages_ before they give you a new corporation, and I’ll be _terribly_ bored in the meantime. I can’t fix that body while _you’re_ in it, so–”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Are you telling me to _possess_ you?” Or, rather, he started to say it, only to cough up a substantial quantity of blood. He recognized the unraveling feeling of starting to come unattached to his corporation, and tried again to heal himself, but demonic wounds were - rather difficult things.

“Go- Sa- _somebody,_ ” Crowley said, sounding rather desperate. “Angel, _now._ ” And he seized Aziraphale’s wrist and - _pulled._

It was not a comfortable feeling, being yanked out of one’s corporation. Not comfortable at _all._ A bit like ripping off a plaster, if the plaster was your entire skin.

But it wasn’t as bad as what came after.

* * *

Possession was generally discouraged by Above. It wasn’t - _proper._ Had a whiff of the demonic, and also struck most angels as sort of, well, dirty. A bit like taking a bath in a pond that might have leeches, or mosquito larvae, or just a great deal of pond scum.

Not the sort of thing one wanted to do, as a rule.

That wasn’t the trouble, though. Ordinarily, possession might be uncomfortable, but human matter had enough of the touch of the divine to make it doable - and enough of the infernal to work for the other side.

Infernal matter and celestial matter were a different thing entirely. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale could possibly have been aware, since no one had previously attempted to put a demon and an angel in the same corporation. There had been an unfortunate incident in the third century BCE where a Power had attempted to enter a demon-possessed human in order to purify him, which had resulted in a very messy explosion, but it had been hushed up and at the time they had both been busy in Carthage.

There were three immediate problems with what Crowley had done:

  1. His corporation had been built in Hell, and was therefore not just spiritually but materially infused with infernal substance.
  2. Containing the totality of angelic or demonic power in a physical form was already a tricky matter that had taken the better part of a century to fully perfect. There was just A Lot.
  3. The essence of Aziraphale’s possessing Crowley’s corporation was roughly the metaphysical equivalent of putting vinegar and baking soda in a bottle and shaking it very hard.



“Oh, fuck,” Crowley said faintly, and then started screaming.

This was a very reasonable reaction to the feeling of infernal spirit meeting celestial spirit and combusting, which was to say, excruciating. It was being raked over coals. It was being shredded by Hellhounds.

It was worse than both of those things, and all he could do was cling to his corporation for dear life and hope there was enough left of him to walk away when this was over.

It occurred to him, blood pouring out of his nose, and eyes, and ears, that he might have made a rather dire miscalculation.

* * *

For Aziraphale, the sensation was a bit different. Aziraphale had never possessed anyone before. It was a very disorienting sensation, being stuff into a corporation that wasn’t yours while someone else was still there. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would do it voluntarily.

Caught up in that, it took him a few moments to realize that the funny bubbling feeling was perhaps not normal, and something had gone wrong, and that the ‘something gone wrong’ was that his essence was very suddenly _on fire._

Or at least, that was what it felt like.

He was aware that Crowley was screaming, which made sense, because Crowley was the one who still had a voice. Aziraphale was just a concentrated mass of energy, and it was a question of whether the baking soda or vinegar was going to use up first.

_Crowley!_ Aziraphale thought, as hard as he could. _Crowley! Focus! Heal my body and put me back in it-_

The only feedback he received was an agonized wail.

Aziraphale tried to pull himself in, separate his essence from Crowley’s and contain himself where he wouldn’t do any damage - or might do less, anyway. Because he _was_ aware of the strain, could feel Crowley’s corporation weakening fast and, more alarmingly, Crowley himself weakening faster.

_If you don’t do something right now we’re both going to die,_ Aziraphale said. Crowley heaved in a breath and Aziraphale could feel the blood gurgling in his lungs. He could see his own corporation lying limp and bloody on the ground, and tried to reach out to lay on hands, groping for Crowley’s power.

_No no no no no,_ said Crowley frantically.

_What do you want me to do?_

_Ssstop hurting me!_

_I’m not_ trying _to!_ Aziraphale steadied himself, or tried, as much as he could when the edges of his very essence were sizzling and Crowley’s seemed to be on the verge of melting like he’d been doused in holy water. _Put me back,_ he said. _This isn’t working, I’ll just discorporate and it’ll be fine-_

It wouldn’t be. If he came back in this condition there would be an Inquiry, and that would be a _very_ difficult explanation to make.

_No,_ Crowley said, with a palpable burst of determination. _No, I’ve - I’ve got thisss._

Crowley’s hands moved with an unnerving popping noise, bits of his corporation dissolving like it was full of acid. He pressed them against Aziraphale’s corporation and did - something. To Aziraphale it felt like having his essence stabbed with one hundred very sharp knives that were also on fire. By the way Crowley spat up blood all over Aziraphale’s clothes, it wasn’t a delightful experience for him, either.

_Go in peace, angel,_ Crowley said, sounding oddly giddy and thoroughly drunk.

_Oh, thank God,_ Aziraphale said, and exorcised himself. Which did not, it turned out, feel much better than going the other way round. Less like hopping from one body to another and more like extracting the salt out of seawater, if both salt and seawater could feel pain.

Back in his corporation, ragged, battered, raw, but still more or less intact, Aziraphale sat up with a gasp. He stared at Crowley, who looked like his insides had made a bid for freedom through his pores.

“Well,” Crowley said, voice grinding over partly dissolved vocal cords, “that was exciting.”

And fell over facefirst into the dirt.

* * *

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to miracle Crowley well, but it occurred to him right before he did it that, considering the reason Crowley was in this state to begin with, that might not be the best of ideas. He next tried to wake Crowley up the usual way, which was to say by vigorous shaking and insistently calling his name. That was not effective either, and Crowley’s corporation was still insistently leaking blood.

Not to mention his state on the metaphysical plane, which was even more wretched and ragged than Aziraphale’s, flickering like a guttering flame.

He needed to get Crowley out of the street.

Aziraphale heaved him up over his shoulder in what was a decidedly awkward maneuver (Crowley seemed, somehow, to have too many limbs), and convinced one of the tenants of a nearby apartment that he had urgent business at the other end of the city. Then it was a matter of bringing Crowley up the stairs and putting him gracelessly on the floor. The loud _thump_ he made hitting it caused Aziraphale to wince, but Crowley did not so much as wince, or utter one of his strangled, incoherent noises.

Aziraphale’s concern grew. A general, fraternal sort of concern, he told himself. And, well, Crowley _had_ done him a favor. Which was not perhaps entirely on the up-and-up, technically speaking, as far as angelic conduct, but…

Dithering over what he ought to do - _should_ he attempt a miracle to heal a demon? Was that even _allowed?_ \- Aziraphale realized that Crowley was choking.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, rather unnecessarily, and bent down to turn Crowley onto his side. He gargled and blood poured out of his mouth.

“Gkk,” he said, when it stopped.

“What do I do?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley lifted one weak hand and flapped it at him.

“M’fine. Givvit’a minute.”

“You are _not_ fine,” Aziraphale protested. “You are - you’re a wreck!”

“Thanks,” Crowley said. He had the gall to sound _offended._ “‘Preciate it.”

“ _Really,_ ” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, you’re absolutely covered in blood, it’s coming out of your nose and mouth and ears and you’re - _flickering._ ”

“Yeah,” Crowley said after a moment. “Not...my best idea.”

“You don’t say!” Aziraphale said, appalled. “It was a terrible idea! We could have both been destroyed - not just discorporated, _destroyed._ Demons and angels just aren’t _meant_ to mix, Crowley, if you’d thought for five seconds-”

Crowley turned his head fractionally to glare balefully at Aziraphale out of one yellow eye. There was no white at all, as he was apparently too exhausted to make the effort. “Saved your blessed _life,_ didn’t I?” he said, which was true, for what it was worth, but Aziraphale could not quite dispel the distress and fear that were still knotted somewhere around his chest region. He couldn’t stop seeing Crowley collapsed facefirst on the ground, unmoving.

“It was wrong!” Aziraphale said loudly. “I should never have let you - talk me into doing _that_! You - you wily old serpent, tempting me astray!”

Crowley’s face, what he could see of it under the blood, slammed closed like a door. “Absolutely,” he said flatly. “That’s what I was doing. Good thing you’re onto me. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “I should never have left Constantinople,” he said. “And certainly never let you - _trick_ me into lingering.”

“You’ll be going, then,” Crowley said. His voice sounded a bit unsteady, and he still hadn’t moved from lying flat on the floor.

“I have to,” Aziraphale said, anguished, but he didn’t.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Go on. No one’s stopping you.”

If it weren’t for Crowley, Aziraphale thought, he would have discorporated. Crowley had _fixed_ him, and even if he still felt a bit ill overall - well, he was at least standing, which was more than Crowley could say for himself. But he was a mess of _feelings_ that he was quite certain he wasn’t meant to be having, not about a demon, and he kept trying to tell himself that there was surely some plot here he just didn’t recognize-

But he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true.

“I’m going to…” he trailed off awkwardly. Crowley seemed to have stopped actively bleeding, anyway, though his aura still felt...mauled. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it, though. Attempting any healing seemed likely to just make things worse.

“Ssstop hovering, angel,” Crowley snapped, a bit of hiss slipping into his voice. “Leave. You’re not going to need to do any thwarting around here.”

Aziraphale took a step back, stung. “Fine!” he said. “Fine. If that’s how you feel.” He turned sharply and headed for the door.

He paused once, glancing back. Crowley was curled up on the floor in a ball looking absolutely wretched. Aziraphale’s heart did something peculiar: a sort of cross between a wrench and a twang.

He made himself turn around and walk away. It wasn’t any of his business. He’d already stayed too long.

The demon Crowley could fend for himself.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t see Crowley again until 1375, when they crossed paths in Avignon. They spotted each other across a room, and Aziraphale half-raised a hand to wave only to catch himself. He saw Crowley stiffen, then turn and walk away without a word.

He spent the rest of the evening oddly bereft, and uncomfortably guilty.

Later that evening, though, Crowley knocked on Aziraphale’s door and held up a bottle of wine.

“Long time no see,” he said. “Fancy a drink?”

He really shouldn’t. There were all kinds of reasons why he shouldn’t, and only about three why he should. But he thought of Crowley in Ishbiliya and felt an unaccountable flash of guilt. It seemed as though he should say something about it, really. Apologize? (To a demon?) Or at least...something.

But just as Aziraphale started to open his mouth, he caught a look in Crowley’s eyes that stopped him. _Don’t do it,_ it said. _Let’s keep that box closed, shall we, and not talk about it, and then it won’t have happened._

He cleared his throat. “Since you’re offering,” he said. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Good answer, angel,” Crowley said with a bright flash of teeth, and insinuated himself inside, where they could pretend, at least for a few hours, that they weren’t what they were: diametrically opposed, utterly incompatible, capable only of causing each other great pain.

Lying was unangelic. But intentional obliviousness was all right, Aziraphale told himself. He wasn’t hurting anybody.

_It hurt Crowley,_ murmured a reproachful voice, quiet but very difficult to ignore. Aziraphale pushed it away.

And it had turned out fine, hadn’t it? Everything was fine.


End file.
